9.00 a.m.

This was an ungodly hour to organize a meeting, I thought. Scratch that - when you work in corporate, any hour is an ungodly hour to have a meeting. The lower half of my body was falling asleep, my coffee was now cold from having to rush to this meeting, and I had a mild panic attack when I couldn’t recall if I had locked the front door on my way out this morning. 

I reminisced about the exact moment I was instructed to choose a career path. It was right before starting Sixth Form, and we were each given a form to select our streams: Arts of Science. It was a cruel system, expecting a clueless kid to determine the path of the rest of their lives by simply ticking a checkbox. Raised by mother to be fiscally frugal, I naturally leaned towards a career that would earn me the most money. 

This is it, I thought naively as I ticked all the subjects for Engineering, this will set me up for life.

Little did I know that what I actually signed up for was unrewarded overtime, endless red tape, and daily redundant meetings (that could have been emails). 

My mind drifted back to the minutes I was supposed to be working on. Wow, I zoned out for quite a while. The other people in the room were still droning on, but I supposed they were about to conclude soon, given the time. I perked up at the thought of retreating to my corner desk. Any moment now. 

I looked down on my watch. 

9.03 a.m.

I could almost feel the deep soul-crushing pain caused by such irony. 

That, or it could have been my gastritis acting up from the cold, bitter coffee.

With a subtle sigh, I picked up my pen and tried to concentrate on my notes. It took immense effort, considering I was still mourning the poignant relativity of time and the sad state of my beverage. Both left a bitter aftertaste, literally and figuratively. 

And that’s when it happened.

From the corner of my eye, I saw my spare pen roll over slightly towards me. I paid no heed to it, probably moved because of the air-conditioner. The central AC was known to be a bit wonky from time to time.

The second time it happened caught my full attention; this time it rolled a solid few inches away from me.

This was it. I was becoming undone. All those all-nighters and lack of social interaction has caught up to me. My imagination has intertwined with reality, and I couldn’t tell them apart.

I supposed all I had left to do now was accept my fate. This could go two ways: my tragic memoir could be turned into an award-winning coming-of-age biopic, or… I could be institutionalized forever. 

If it was the former, would I have creative control over the narrative? Would I be able to choose my life-movie’s director? 

“Milla, what are the numbers?”

I was in reality now, I was sure. No way in my imagination would I have an old man in a monkey suit harass me for numbers I couldn’t care less for. 

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I read the numbers off my files, which seemed to appease the monkey-man. I looked back at the pen. It remained at its last position.

Would I be able to choose which actress plays me?

***

It was five minutes to 5 o’clock, but I was already ready to bolt. Bags packed, spirits high, no cares given.

It wasn’t like I had any terribly exciting plans to head to - no dinner gatherings, no parties, no dates. It’s not that I was anti social, heck, I had my fair share of wild nights back in the day. Too wild, in fact, which left me with painful memories and disgraceful regrets that I carried till this day. 

So instead of working on my traumatic past and putting myself out there, I did what any other self-preserving young adult would do: ignore my problems and binge-watch a show. That day I was eager to find out whether the contestants cooped up in a single household could abstain from having sex with each other. I wonder what our ancestors would have imagined the future to be: flying cars, teleportation devices, humans possessing the willpower to maintain celibacy… 

But no, the year was 2020, and one of the greatest productions of our generation was a scripted superficial drama of whether a bunch of adolescents could keep it in their pants. 

Ah, how far we’ve come. And I was shamelessly deriving pleasure from it.

“Milla! Hold up.”

I begrudgingly held the door open button in the elevator.

“Hey, Lee,” I said with a smile. 

“Glad I caught you,” he kept the doors open with his hands. “Join us tonight, we’re going to the beach to celebrate Jane’s birthday.”

No, Lee, I had to know if Selena and Tom can resist their palpable sexual chemistry. 

“Sure, Lee,” I said instead. “When and where?”

“Great! Never mind that, just carpool with us.” he said as he let go of the doors. “Meet us down at the lobby.”

“Great,” I echoed. “See you.”

As the doors close I cursed my spineless self. 

***

The warmth from the bonfire made me feel better. I took another bite of pizza and managed to take a genuine interest in some small talk. 

Everyone was singing out loud to a curated list of current hits on Lee’s phone, and before they could pinpoint me next to deliver some current hit for their entertainment, I picked up a can of soda and ducked away from the crowd. I headed over to the edge of the sea and sat down facing the sea. It was a soothing night; the sounds of the waves and gentle breeze calmed me despite the commotion going on at the back. 

I felt someone come up behind me, and without turning to see who it was I said, “Nice night, isn’t it.”

It was silent for a while, aside from for the crashing of the waves and the musical ruckus. I started to feel uncomfortable that my comment was left hanging in the air, so I swung around. 

Jamie, the office clerk, was walking towards me, and that left me somewhat puzzled. I could have sworn I felt her nearer to me. 

“Milla, come, we’re about to cut the cake!” she said, gesturing me over enthusiastically.

I got up and went over to her. As I walked, the grainy sand prickling the soles of my feet, I felt the same presence looming behind me. 

I shook it off, and distracted myself by entertaining the idea of being the director of my own biopic.

***

It was pitch black. I’ve performed the necessary steps: guided meditation, aromatherapy, no blue-light devices an hour before bed.

But there I lay – 3 in the morning and eyes still wide open, staring into nothing.

My insomnia episodes were rare but when it struck, it struck hard. I foresaw how the night would pan out: a few hours wallowing in my past mistakes, another few hours worrying about my unchecked to-do list, and the last few minutes groggily rushing as I got ready for work.

I spun on my bed and faced the wall. The physical exhaustion was taking a toll on my mind, and I became angrier at myself. I was in a vicious cycle: my stress was keeping me up, and my being up was fueling my stress.

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted sheep as a last resort.

I had made it to the 135th sheep when I heard a shuffle behind me, and sensed the same presence I felt back at the beach.

I froze. I tried to convince myself that my sleep-deprived mind was just playing tricks on me. I reverted my focus on the white, fluffy sheep.

136… 137… 152… no… 138…  

The shuffling got louder, nearer, and I began counting the sheep out loud instead.

“164… 169… ahh… 1… 2… 3…”

“Hello?” a deep voice interrupted my count, and I screamed my lungs out.